"John…" Sherlock stuttered, almost choking out the name. He stood and stared down at the black gravestone next to his own, trying to compose himself. Trying not to look as broken as he felt. "John…I'm not quite sure what to say. I did this to protect you. I never meant for this to happen. I should have told you…I'm, I'm sorry, John. I am. You were…you are my friend. I was trying to save you. Please…forgive me."
In the days proceeding Sherlock's funeral, John had sat in the flat, not knowing what to do with himself now that he had nothing left. Sherlock had given him life, and he'd taken it when he took his own. Now John had nothing to do with his life, no one to live with, to work with. No partner. No friend. No life. And then he'd found his gun, the one he'd held on the morning he met Sherlock. He was back where he started, so why not finish what he'd started?